


with all my heart

by sosobriquet



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), F/M, Inappropriate Use Of Prayer, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Slice of Life, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet
Summary: Aziraphale attempts to say his prayers at night like Brother Francis would... it does not go as planned.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571086
Comments: 10
Kudos: 107
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy





	with all my heart

**Author's Note:**

> prompt for Day 3 of the 12 Days of Blasphemy: prayer
> 
> (yep, still behind ... oh well)

Aziraphale, still in his guise as Brother Francis, kneels at his bedside in the small garden cottage provided by the Dowlings. Being an angel, there’s hardly any need for bedtime prayers, but he’s always felt it best to play his part to the fullest.

He shuffles through his memory, trying to recall a suitable human prayer; one that is more singing than a joyless chant, but simple enough not to slip into his native tongue. Unfortunately, the only “human” singing he’s able to bring to mind are snatches of Crowley singing along with the Bentley under his breath.

But there is one that comes to mind, eventually; taught to him by a young medic during the war. He’d recited it many times in his strange accent for Aziraphale, working the beads of his rosary through his hands, until he’d been called away at last.

Aziraphale rises up onto his knees, like he remembers seeing humans do. The unforgiving tile that covers the cottage floor hurts his knees even through the rug he'd spread alongside his bed, so he settles back onto his heels. He is a bit more comfortable like this, at least enough to focus on the task at hand.

He tries to recall the cadence of the young man’s voice, for it had struck a chord in him almost like the singing of the heavenly host, but all that comes to mind is the low baritone of Crowley’s voice as he had sung little Warlock to sleep in the shade beneath the birch trees just that afternoon. 

Well, it will simply have to do.

Aziraphale clasps his hands, and bows his head.

“Oh Lord, grant that I shall never seek so much to be consoled, as to console,” he intones carefully, matching the rhythm of it to Crowley’s lullaby without meaning to.

“To be understood, as to understand," he hesitates over the next line. When he’d heard it that first time (and every time thereafter, too) it had struck him like a bolt to the heart.

He glances furtively around his small cottage before resuming his pose. This time, he clasps his hands so tightly his knuckles ache, and he presses his lips to the spaces between his fingers as if he might catch the words he’s about to speak. 

“Or to be loved, as to love; with all my heart _._ ”

As ever before, he can neither speak, nor hear, the words without thinking of Crowley. 

_They sit in the backroom of the bookshop, perhaps while their veins still sing with traces of their drinking, and declare themselves godfathers with a tenderness that surprises them both._

_The soft brush of Crowley’s fingers as he returns Aziraphale’s precious books to him in the rubble of a bombed out church._

_The thrill when Crowley agrees to boost the popularity of Hamlet; a favor freely given just for Aziraphale’s asking._

_How close Crowley had come to tempting Aziraphale into leaving the cold and damp for all the comforts of home._

_They stand, leaning on one another in silence, as Christ breathes his last breath; forsaken by all but his mother and adoptive father, and an angel and a demon._

He shivers at these memories and scoots closer, up against the bed, allowing a little wiggle to settle himself.

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace _,_ ” he starts, and stops; thinking of Crowley again. 

_So often the demon had argued for peace. To raiders and warriors he promised happier, less bloody lives if they would give up their swords for plows. To the nobility he whispered “perhaps if there were no more slaves, and all your people were treated fairly, there would be less dissent and thievery.”_

“Where there is hatred, let me sow love,” Aziraphale recites, with dedication, but still a memory swims to the surface of his thoughts.

_A white wing stretched over a hellfire-red and damned-dark smudge of a demon. “Oh, you’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.” Kindnesses neither had owed the other, but that they had freely given._

“Where there is injury, pardon. ” 

_Crowley; jigging down the aisle of a church, burning his soles on consecrated ground. Just to spare Aziraphale some trouble. It’s a wonder Crowley had ever forgiven the hurt Aziraphale had inflicted on him, nevermind come to his rescue._

"Where there is discord, union," Aziraphale breathes, while tears burn the corners of his eyes. 

_“I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!” Oh, the fear he had felt then, that there might one day be a world without Crowley in it. ‘Fraternizing’ he’d called the strange, delicate thing they had, and nearly cut all their ties with his cruelty._

"Where there is doubt, faith."

 _“Wiping out the human race. Big storm,” Aziraphale wavers. “All of them?” Crowley asks, incredulous. “God’s not actually going to wipe out all the locals,” Aziraphale tries for reassuring, and falls short, “Noah and his family will be saved.” “What about the kids? You can’t kill kids!”_

"Where there is despair, hope.” He remembers the first time he’d made Crowley smile, just a slight curve of his lips, but _oh_ what a delight it had been.

_“Oh, well, let me tempt you to--” Crowley had turned to look at him, startled from his poor mood, and Aziraphale had tripped over his words to be looked at like that again. Later, they had dined together, for the first time. Oysters had never tasted so sweet as they did under Crowley’s gaze._

"Where there is darkness, light."

_“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel,” a familiar voice had spoken from the shadows, and Aziraphale hadn’t been able to remember the last time he’d felt so alight with simple happiness. And that was before Crowley had allowed Aziraphale to treat him to crepes._

"And where there is sadness, joy _._ " Aziraphale’s breath hitched at the last, recalling all the joy and all the pain of his longest, dearest friendship.

 _“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” Aziraphale had wanted to go to Crowley’s mystery Mayfair flat. He’d wanted to go back to his bookshop_ with Crowley _. Anywhere they could have been alone and safe enough for the confession rattling against Aziraphale’s teeth to be whispered into Crowley’s mouth. But there was never going to be any place, or any time, where that would be safe._

_Blessed is he who loves and does not therefore desire to be loved._

It’s too hard not to think of the way his chest had ached that very afternoon, watching Crowley cradle little Warlock so tenderly in his arms. 

There was no artifice in the adoring looks the demonic nanny cast at the dozing child; despite the accent, and the makeup, and the clothes. 

Crowley _loved_ Warlock, and Aziraphale’s traitor heart pounded its frustration and hurt that he could never know that love.

_Blessed is he who fears and does not therefore desire to be feared._

Aziraphale has feared so many things during his life; censure and reprimand, failure and shame. Feared the disappointment of his fellows, and what they might see fit to mete out as punishment, most of all. 

The kindness and friendship of a demon he has feared least of all, but for one thing. He fears so much what might happen if Crowley knew his heart. 

He’s more than tempter enough already without knowing the secrets of Aziraphale’s heart; that he longs to be able to love Crowley, and to be loved in return.

_Blessed is he who serves and does not therefore desire to be served._

His hands have drifted as his mind has wandered, until they rest, still clasped, on his folded thighs. He rests his forehead against the mattress with a sigh.

So many ways Crowley has served him, and done things simply for Aziraphale's convenience or pleasure. Gestures both small and grand, like a true lover might.

How Aziraphale would like to repay all that with his own affection, or anything Crowley might desire from him. He would kiss Crowley, if asked, or sink to his knees to put his mouth on Crowley, on whatever effort he might have chosen.

_Blessed is he who behaves well toward others_ _and does not desire that others behave well toward him._

Aziraphale reaches beneath the layers of his Brother Francis costume to take his own effort in hand. He does not imagine that the hand wrapped around his half-hard cock is Crowley's but instead focuses his thoughts on all the things he'd like to do for Crowley, if only he asked. If only if they were as human as they were pretending to be.

He imagines taking Crowley's effort into his mouth; first the little pink nub of a clitoris beneath his tongue as he thrust two fingers into wet and welcoming heat, then the stretch of a curved cock sliding into his mouth, with fingers wrapped around the base where his mouth simply cannot follow.

He'd bring Crowley off with nothing more than his mouth, if that's what Crowley wished, and see to himself in silence with only his hand tucked into his trousers. Imagining the taste of Crowley flooding his mouth drags him over the edge, and he pumps his cock through it as thick spurts of his release dribbles from the tip, making a mess of his clothes.

_And because these are great things, the foolish do not rise to them_.

Guilt plucks at Aziraphale while he kneels at the side of his bed, face pressed to the mattress, thighs aching. He whispers a quick prayer, _a plea_ , for forgiveness.

Once he catches his breath, he levers himself up off the floor with shaking arms, and onto shaking legs. He strips off his soiled clothes, but neither miracles them away, or clean. Instead, he tosses them onto the bed, and turns down the sheets to climb inside, naked.

Even he doesn't know if he means it to be punishment, or a reward, to sleep naked in this bed that smells of sex. Is he hoping for wistful dreams where he's not alone here, or does he hope that it makes his loneliness all the sharper?

In the morning, he must face Crowley again, and continue his playacting. For tonight he is just Aziraphale, alone.


End file.
